Not the Full Story
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NOT THE FULL STORY Owen O’Sullivan OFM Cap. 1 © Owen O‘Sullivan OFM Cap., 2014. 2 CONTENTS Page Preface vii Part 1: THE EARLY YEARS 1 My parents 1 My Father 1 My Mother 6 Sandymount, Dublin 9 Thurles, County Tipperary 9 Siblings 10 Primary school 16 Snapshots from Thurles 24 The life of faith 31 Blackrock, County Louth 38 Snapshots from Blackrock 42 Life in the church 46 Looking out to the wider world 51 Cork 52 A great teacher – genuinely 54 Snapshots from Cork 55 The news of the world 57 Bishopstown, County Cork 57 Pres 59 Further afield 63 Spreading the wings 68 Conradh na Gaeilge 69 The Legion of Mary 70 The FCA 70 Bumps on the road 74 3 The perils of adolescence 76 After school – what next? 81 Part 2: BECOMING A CAPUCHIN 88 Kilkenny – the Novitiate 88 Who we were 93 A fairly typical day 95 An ―atheist‖ interlude 100 Am I in the right place? 101 The three vows 102 Snapshots from Kilkenny 108 Saint Bonaventure‘s, Cork 110 A new friary 110 Vatican II 111 Philosophy 117 Connie Lucey 127 Snapshots from Saint Bonaventure‘s 129 Ards, County Donegal 133 Farming 136 The formation programme 138 Humanae Vitae 144 Snapshots from Ards 152 The long-awaited day – ordination 154 ―The Gor‖, Dublin 156 Snapshots from The Gor 160 Part 3: NEW ZEALAND 164 Aotearoa, the Land of the Long White Cloud 164 Victoria University of Wellington 171 Snapshots from New Zealand 175 4 Marriage problems 182 An answer to prayer 184 Home leave 186 Back in New Zealand - Inter insigniores 187 Peter Thomas Bertram McKeefry 191 Secularism 193 Formation 198 Meadowbank, Henderson and Gore 199 Domestic problems 202 Part 4: AFRICA 205 Zambia in the sun 205 Small Christian Communities (SCC) 209 Sioma 212 Shangombo 214 Stuck in the mud 218 Snapshots from Sioma 220 Sichili 222 The joys of air travel 226 Gratitude and happiness 230 Buying and selling 232 Nanga 234 Snapshots from Sichili 237 The party and the church 250 Limulunga 256 A particular problem 265 Snapshots from Limulunga 266 The perils of publishing 270 5 Livingstone 274 Snapshots from Livingstone 278 Back to Sioma 281 Books 285 A new bishop 290 Another side to relief and development 292 Crocodiles are nasty 299 More snapshots from Sioma 303 A new word in the vocabulary 315 Getting cross with God 317 Mines 319 A visitor from the sky 321 Mangango 322 AIDS 323 One world 327 Dan‘s dam 329 Malaria – or was it? 331 Snapshots from Mangango 333 Musings on the Luena 346 Malengwa 348 Problems with women 349 But on the other hand… 353 Where are we going? 355 Madagascar - an island interlude 363 Chopping down the future 365 How do you get rid of a dictator? 366 La Sanguinaire and Victoire Rasoamanarivo 367 Déterrement 369 6 Snapshots from Madagascar 371 Back to Malengwa 372 Part 5: Back to Ireland 376 Kilkenny once again 376 A process of unlearning and letting go of illusions – all to the good. 376 Helping in hospital 391 What had happened to Catholic Ireland? 394 More snapshots from Kilkenny 397 Carlow 402 Confession 403 Editing and writing 406 Listening to priests 407 Parish missions 408 Snapshots from Carlow 411 Where to from here? 414 Belfast, Lagmore 415 First impressions 415 Visitation 424 The writing bug 430 An evening walk 434 The railway line 436 The skeleton out of the cupboard 440 Tom Rocks 446 Snapshots from Lagmore 447 My parents 459 Leaving Lagmore 463 7 Men‘s work 466 Sabbatical 467 An interlude in Sante Fé 472 Back to the CAC 474 Snapshots from the sabbatical 478 Back in Ireland 482 Ards, County Donegal 483 Raheny, Dublin 488 Gurránabráher, Cork City 491 An unpleasant intrusion 496 Snapshots from Gurránabráher 501 Pope Benedict XVI 506 The sacraments 509 Reflecting on parish life 518 Leaving Gurrán 519 Clerical sex abuse 526 Dublin , hospital chaplain 534 Work in ―The Bons‖ 537 Visitations of different kinds 539 Francis 542 Would I do it all over again? 544 What sustains me spiritually? 546 What about Jesus? 551 What lies ahead? 554 8 NOT THE FULL STORY PREFACE Why write an autobiography? I did it to clarify ideas in my head, to get them down on paper so as to be able to understand myself better. This long version is written primarily for my extended family, for any among them who might be interested. I am also considering abridging it in another edition, omitting most of the family material, and focusing on my life in the church. That might interest a wider audience. I began writing a broad outline, or map, of this story on the train from Cork to Dublin, when going to meet my sister, Maeve (Veve), there on 8 February 2013. I finished the first draft, up to the end of Gurránabráher, on 19 July 2013, and the second version on 31 March 2014. The story has lots of loose ends and unanswered questions. That is the way life is, and I‘m trying to tell it like it is. Is it the whole truth, the full story? No. For reasons relating to myself or to others there are things left unsaid, and I believe it is better that way. But, to the best of my knowledge, everything I have written in it is true. I haven‘t fabricated anything, or, I believe, exaggerated. The opinions offered are those I honestly hold; none of them is stated for effect. 9 In some instances, in order to protect identities, I have changed names of people and places, along with other potentially identifying information, while preserving intact the substance of the matter. Owen O‘Sullivan OFM Cap Capuchin Friary Church St. Dublin 7 Ireland 4 April 2014 10 PART 1: THE EARLY YEARS My Parents My Father My father, Gerald - Gearóid in Irish - was born in Sneem, Co. Kerry, on 10 June 1912, the youngest of seven sons. His mother was a primary school teacher and his father a head constable in the RIC, known locally as John the Head. John had been told by his superior officers that he would not be promoted beyond that level because he was a Catholic. When the Independence movement began to develop after the 1916 Rising, and especially after the 1918 general election, he became involved with the local IRA, not as a member, but by drilling and helping them with some knowledge of military matters, since the RIC was quasi-military. After primary school, my father boarded at Saint Brendan‘s in Killarney, the Seminary, as it was called, and loathed it. The food was appalling, with coal sometimes being found in the butter. Many years later, when the school approached him for a donation for some renovation project, he replied that he would gladly contribute to a demolition fund. He felt that the priests in the college for the most part did not want to be there; they had sought ordination with parish ministry in mind. They were square pegs in round holes and wanted only to get out of the college and into a parish. Half way through secondary school he was transferred to 11 Rockwell College where he was very happy; after Saint Brendan‘s, Rockwell was bliss. When he completed the Leaving Cert course in 1930, he was accepted into teacher training at Saint Patrick‘s College in Drumcondra, Dublin. He graduated two years later, on 9 June, the day before his twentieth birthday. The Eucharistic Congress was about to begin and the college wanted the rooms for visitors so the term ended early. The staff wanted the students out, and they were happy to oblige! He went first to Saint Joseph's Patrician Brothers' secondary school in Galway, teaching Irish, English and Mathematics, at a salary of £2-10-0 a week. He had a great knowledge and love of the Irish language. While there he began studying in University College, Galway (UCG) for a bachelor‘s degree, being allowed time off for the purpose. Since he was already a trained teacher, he was allowed to start the course in second year. In autumn 1933, he began teaching in Saint Patrick's (Practising) School in Drumcondra. This interrupted his degree course which he was not able to resume until autumn 1935, completing it in June 1937. In the school in Drumcondra he began the new school year with what was something of a revolutionary gesture for the time. When he went into the classroom on his first day, he saw a stick on the teacher‘s desk; it was a standard item of school equipment, almost as much a part of the scene as chalk. Saying nothing, he picked it up, broke it across his knee and threw the pieces into a bin. He didn‘t believe in corporal punishment, partly, I think, in reaction to his father who had very much 12 believed in it. After the class, the boys took and divided the pieces of stick among themselves. In 2004, when I conducted his funeral, a woman came to my sister, Veve, afterwards to say that her brother had been one of the boys in the class and had kept his piece of stick as a souvenir of my father until a few years before. My father‘s faith was strong and simple. He and my mother read widely, but rarely, if ever, about the faith. They had a bible, but opened it only to check a reference, and that rarely.